In the Lands Between, tortoises were often regarded as symbols of wisdom, longevity, and experience. So sorcerer's towers even revered them as sacred beasts of insight.
And Miriel, steward of the Church of Vows, was sothing greater still.
Not only did he study both sorcery and incantations, he had achieved mastery in both arts. With confidence he believed that, whatever incantations Lucian wished to learn, he could teach them. Even those he himself could not cast, he could decipher and explain through the prayerbooks that recorded each creed's tenets.
Those doctrines were usually obscure, their words dense and difficult to grasp. But with a teacher as learned as Miriel, a student could hope to truly understand them.
Only... when Miriel saw the book Lucian placed before him, he faltered for a mont.
The Godskin Prayerbook. Bound in smooth, pale human skin, its cover gave off a faintly grotesque sheen.
"I'd like to study the incantations in this book," Lucian said softly. "Would that be possible?"
"Mm… yes. Yes."
It was not that Miriel bore any prejudice against its contents. To him, knowledge was not divided between high and low, nor was there such a thing as true heresy. All could be reconciled, all brought together.
But the material of this to—the feel of that slick skin binding, gave him pause.
After a mont, he raised his great head and spoke solemnly:
"Of course. In this world, there is no heresy. All things may be joined together, reconciled in harmony."
His steady eyes rested on Lucian. "You are certain you wish to learn from , Lucian?"
Lucian nodded. Miriel was indeed the best choice of teacher for incantations.
Sorcery, after all, he could learn elsewhere—Ranni had already granted him Carian Glintblade sorceries, and Sellen in the academy could teach the rest. No doubt Miriel had knowledge of magic as well, but he could not compare with Sellen's depth in that field.
Incantations, however, were another matter entirely.
In the ga, there were but two true tutors of incantations: Brother Corhyn at Roundtable Hold, and Miriel here at the Church of Vows.
But Corhyn was a wanderer, unreliable, and Lucian barely knew him. In the ga's tale, Corhyn's faith even collapsed in the end, driving him to murder his master, the noble Goldmask.
Lucian had exchanged only a few greetings with him at the Roundtable. He had no intention of drawing closer, nor of entrusting his learning to him. He could not risk revealing Goldmask's location, nor could he allow him to perish.
Thus his strategy was simple: no contact, no secrets shared.
As for D, the hunter of Those Who Live in Death, he could indeed teach incantations—but only those belonging to the Golden Order Fundantalists. If handed any other prayerbook, he would be of no help.
Miriel, however, would not turn him away.
Seeing Lucian's resolve, the tortoise pastor nodded. "Then place your prayerbook before . I will study every word within it, and when I have finished, I shall teach you. It will not take long.
"In the anti, I suggest you see to that object you carry, the one steeped in death's stench."
Lucian blinked, then reached into his pack. Wrapped in layers of cloth was the Deathroot he had taken the day before. The wrappings now bulged with black thorns, sharp spikes piercing outward.
"You're right," Lucian muttered. "This must be dealt with at once."
He laid the prayerbook before Miriel, then bowed. "I leave the incantations in your care, Master Miriel."
He could not carry the Deathroot like this. Best to return to the Roundtable Hold and entrust it to D.
Miriel watched him depart, then let out a long sigh of relief.
The tortoise pastor released a small cantrip of his own design, flipping open the grotesque to and glancing through a few pages. When he was certain Lucian had gone, he muttered, exasperated:
"Ah… if I had known he would bring sothing like this, I might not have agreed. But—what's promised is promised."
And with that, Miriel opened his massive jaws and swallowed the book whole.
He did not chew. He forced the slick, skin-bound volu straight down, his throat convulsing, the sensation of cold human hide scraping along his gullet nearly making him retch.
The body of a tortoise had its advantages—chief among them, longevity. But it ca with no small inconveniences. Writing and reading, for example, were trials. He had learned long ago how clumsy his vast limbs were at turning delicate pages.
So he had invented little spells—charms to turn leaves of books, to etch script without quill. But the thod was clumsy, slow.
Instead, he had devised another way. He would consu the texts whole, then break them down with magic inside his belly, absorbing their knowledge directly.
It was a lazy thod at first, born of impatience. Yet now, with his body grown stiff and slow, it was a blessing.
As he digested the Godskin Prayerbook, its secrets unfurled within him.
What it contained shocked him.
These were the prayers of the Godskin Apostles and Nobles—the Black Fla they once wielded, a fla that had hunted gods themselves.
Since the sealing of Destined Death, the Black Fla had grown weaker, incomplete. Still, though the prayers here were not those of the Godskin themselves but of their followers, they held formidable power. These were no ordinary incantations.
Miriel forgot his distaste for the book's binding, imrsing himself in its dark lore.
At the Church's site of grace, Lucian transported back to Roundtable Hold. He wandered its halls briefly, searching for D.
Before long, D himself ca striding up, helm glinting, voice grim.
"I sensed the stench of death here. So it was you who brought it, Lucian."
"Just in ti," Lucian said, producing the Deathroot. Its cloth wrappings now bulged with black thorn, like a bramble sphere.
D's eyes narrowed behind his helm. Watching Lucian handle the cursed object so casually nearly made him wince. He hurried forward to take it, and at once began the sealing ritual of the Golden Order.
Even as he worked, he spoke:
"Lucian, I know your strength is great, but I must warn you. These roots carry death's own breath. To the living, it is poison. Even you are not beyond its reach.
"Should you find another, do not carry it. Leave it where it lies. It takes ti for new Deathbirds to be born from them—you would have ti to return later. But if death's blight were to touch your body, no rune would heal it."
Lucian nodded. His thoughts turned quickly—if he was to deal with Deathroot often, perhaps he should study the Golden Order's incantations as well.
"D," he said, "I wish to learn the Law of Regression, the Order's incantation. That way, I can better face the deathborn. Will you teach ?"
The hunter paused mid-ritual, then raised his head. Though his face was hidden, Lucian could feel his surprise. But he quickly nodded.
"If you would learn, then of course. To spread the Golden Order is my duty."
And a warrior of Lucian's caliber—such an ally against the death-touched would be a blessing.
He led Lucian to his chamber, a small room set aside as his base within the Hold. There they sat together, and D began to teach.
"The Golden Order Fundantalism is the root of our faith, the very logic upon which all is built. From it springs the Law of Regression and the Law of Causality. These are deep, abstruse principles—truth be told, I have yet to master them myself.
"But as a hunter of Those Who Live in Death, you need not. For you, it is enough to wield its application: the incantations of the Golden Order.
"The Law of Regression purges imperfection. Its light burns the death-touched more fiercely than any other. You will first learn Order's Blade—to sheathe your weapon in the radiance of the Order itself. Against the deathborn, it will strike with holy fury."
He lifted a plain sword from the wall. Holding a seal in one hand, he raised the blade high. Light flared, and a golden emblem of three rings enclosed in an inverted triangle blood upon the steel. Then the weapon shone with brilliant radiance.
"Watch closely," D said, and began to instruct Lucian step by step.
He stressed the importance of understanding doctrine. A misstep here could an more than failure—it could an disaster. Fortunately, Lucian's grasp of sorcery assured him that his intellect was sufficient. The only question was his faith.
But when Lucian raised his own weapon and spoke the prayer, golden fire flared along the blade, bright and sharp.
Too bright.
D stared, startled. Such light was not the glow of a novice. This was the light of a true believer.
Was this truly Lucian's first step into Fundantalism? Or had he always been one of the Order's faithful?
He shook his head. No—Lucian had never studied the Order before. But still…
The light proved enough. D felt a weight lift from his shoulders. To have such a one aiding him was fortune indeed.
Once Lucian departed, D sat heavily upon his cot, thoughts racing. Soon he would need to guide him to Beast Clergyman Gurranq, to forge the link between them. And then he could turn his attention elsewhere—to the village spoken of in his intelligence, where he might at last uncover a clue to the origin of the centipede sigil, and perhaps the true cause of the deathborn.
But a knock interrupted his musings.
Knock, knock—
D frowned, thinking Lucian had returned. He opened the door without hesitation.
Instead, a familiar face awaited him.
A tall man in a noble's robe, fine decorations lining his clothes, and upon his head the broad brim of a sorcerer's hat.
His expression was calm, smiling faintly, but there was hesitation behind it.
"Rogier…" D breathed.
His old comrade raised a hand in greeting, a little awkward, though his smile remained.
"Hello, D" Rogier said softly. "Do you… have ti to talk?"
—
[T/N: In Elden Ring, "prayers" and "incantations" are effectively the sa thing. The term "incantation" (祈祷, Kitō; lit. "Prayers") is used to describe a type of spell in the ga, and the word "prayers" is a direct translation of the Japanese term used in the ga's original language.]
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